the office, and went straight for the filing cabinet to retrieve a quart of whisky. He poured two shots into two chipped white-enamelled tin mugs, and took what looked like a well-deserved swig.
‘Did the press buy it?’ asked Vince.
‘Buy what?’ asked Machin, distracted as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘That they OD’d on bad pills.’
‘They bought it. We told them they were small-time dealers from out of town, and the pills were homemade. Said we found a chemistry set and a small press for making the pills. They’d obviously got their chemistry wrong and “paid a price for their irresponsible foolishness”.’
Vince gave an approving nod. ‘That should hold them.’
Machin shook his head sceptically. ‘You might be able to bury this sort of stuff in London but down here – they’ll be all over it. Headlines tomorrow, read all about it: “Is Brighton the new drugs capital of England? Are we out of control? Are we becoming like America? Lock up your daughters!”’
Vince laughed, but wasn’t really listening. He was still studying the mugshot of Henry Pierce. One good eye staring out; one sitting there dead like a big streaky dobber.
Machin kept on with his public outcry shtick. ‘Oh, and that other piece of crap they trot out every time something goes wrong in this town: “Brighton used to be such a nice place.” Who are they kidding? It’s never been a nice place. That’s the appeal!’ He then came and stood over Vince and followed his gaze. ‘Henry “Redskin” Pierce. Old Crazy Horse. Forget him, son. The mad Indian’s retired.’
‘Is it true about him being a Red Indian?’ asked Vince, looking up at Machin. ‘I thought he just used to wrestle dressed up as one?’
‘He did – until he almost killed a geezer. But legend has it he really has got Indian blood in him.’
Vince looked doubtful. ‘I think Tonto’s been speaking with forked tongue, kemo sabe.’
‘Either way, he’s gone back to the reservation. He’s holed up in a retirement home for the blind. Lost the sight in his one good eye.’
Vince couldn’t resist a smirk. ‘What happened?’
‘Not much. No one took it out, as much as I wish they had. He just went blind, about six months ago.’
‘Maybe that eye lost the will to live after all the shit it had seen.’
‘Yeah, maybe, son. Maybe,’ said Machin, handing Vince a mug of whisky.
‘You forget, I don’t drink.’
‘Oh, yeah. Hard to get my nut around that one, son – a copper who doesn’t drink.’ He poured Vince’s into his own. ‘Waste not, want not.’ Machin leaned against the filing cabinet. ‘Anyway, Henry Pierce is finished, out of commission. Wouldn’t surprise me if someone tops him soon.’ He smiled at the thought. ‘Revenge for all the years of grief he’d doled out. Especially now Jack’s not here to look after him.’
‘I’m still going to talk to him.’
Machin frowned. ‘You don’t think we already have?’
Not wanting to seemingly undermine him, Vince threw him an acquiescent smile. ‘I don’t doubt it for a second, mate. Just to reacquaint myself, for old times’ sake.’
‘Be my guest. We’ve done everyone on Jack’s payroll and, surprise , surprise, not a dicky bird. All shtum and alibi-ed up to their orchestra stalls.’
A fresh thought spiked in Vince’s mind. ‘How about those not on his payroll?’
Machin shot him a blank look.
‘He never married, did he?’ Vince continued.
Machin laughed. ‘Jack? Wife, kids and all that stuff? He’s not the marrying kind.’ He refilled his mug. ‘How about you, son?’
‘Married? Not yet, no.’
‘Got someone in mind?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Good-looking fella like you, all the birds fancied you.’ Machin stared out the window contemplatively. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, son.’ He pointed to a framed photo resting on the windowsill, gathering dust in the fading sunlight. It was a family portrait: one wife, two
‘Did the press buy it?’ asked Vince.
‘Buy what?’ asked Machin, distracted as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘That they OD’d on bad pills.’
‘They bought it. We told them they were small-time dealers from out of town, and the pills were homemade. Said we found a chemistry set and a small press for making the pills. They’d obviously got their chemistry wrong and “paid a price for their irresponsible foolishness”.’
Vince gave an approving nod. ‘That should hold them.’
Machin shook his head sceptically. ‘You might be able to bury this sort of stuff in London but down here – they’ll be all over it. Headlines tomorrow, read all about it: “Is Brighton the new drugs capital of England? Are we out of control? Are we becoming like America? Lock up your daughters!”’
Vince laughed, but wasn’t really listening. He was still studying the mugshot of Henry Pierce. One good eye staring out; one sitting there dead like a big streaky dobber.
Machin kept on with his public outcry shtick. ‘Oh, and that other piece of crap they trot out every time something goes wrong in this town: “Brighton used to be such a nice place.” Who are they kidding? It’s never been a nice place. That’s the appeal!’ He then came and stood over Vince and followed his gaze. ‘Henry “Redskin” Pierce. Old Crazy Horse. Forget him, son. The mad Indian’s retired.’
‘Is it true about him being a Red Indian?’ asked Vince, looking up at Machin. ‘I thought he just used to wrestle dressed up as one?’
‘He did – until he almost killed a geezer. But legend has it he really has got Indian blood in him.’
Vince looked doubtful. ‘I think Tonto’s been speaking with forked tongue, kemo sabe.’
‘Either way, he’s gone back to the reservation. He’s holed up in a retirement home for the blind. Lost the sight in his one good eye.’
Vince couldn’t resist a smirk. ‘What happened?’
‘Not much. No one took it out, as much as I wish they had. He just went blind, about six months ago.’
‘Maybe that eye lost the will to live after all the shit it had seen.’
‘Yeah, maybe, son. Maybe,’ said Machin, handing Vince a mug of whisky.
‘You forget, I don’t drink.’
‘Oh, yeah. Hard to get my nut around that one, son – a copper who doesn’t drink.’ He poured Vince’s into his own. ‘Waste not, want not.’ Machin leaned against the filing cabinet. ‘Anyway, Henry Pierce is finished, out of commission. Wouldn’t surprise me if someone tops him soon.’ He smiled at the thought. ‘Revenge for all the years of grief he’d doled out. Especially now Jack’s not here to look after him.’
‘I’m still going to talk to him.’
Machin frowned. ‘You don’t think we already have?’
Not wanting to seemingly undermine him, Vince threw him an acquiescent smile. ‘I don’t doubt it for a second, mate. Just to reacquaint myself, for old times’ sake.’
‘Be my guest. We’ve done everyone on Jack’s payroll and, surprise , surprise, not a dicky bird. All shtum and alibi-ed up to their orchestra stalls.’
A fresh thought spiked in Vince’s mind. ‘How about those not on his payroll?’
Machin shot him a blank look.
‘He never married, did he?’ Vince continued.
Machin laughed. ‘Jack? Wife, kids and all that stuff? He’s not the marrying kind.’ He refilled his mug. ‘How about you, son?’
‘Married? Not yet, no.’
‘Got someone in mind?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Good-looking fella like you, all the birds fancied you.’ Machin stared out the window contemplatively. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, son.’ He pointed to a framed photo resting on the windowsill, gathering dust in the fading sunlight. It was a family portrait: one wife, two
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